LIBRARY 

UNIV.KSITYOF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


Songs  of  the  Hill  Winds 


Songs  of  the  Hill  Winds 

a  book  of  Lyrics  and  other 

Verse  which  'have  appeared 

in  the  Undergraduate 

Publications  of 

Dartmouth 

College 

¥ 

Compiled  and  Edited  by 
Kendall  Banning 

and 

Moses  Bradstreet  Perkins 


New  York  :  Arranged  and  Printed 

for  the  Editors 

at  The  Cheltenham  Press 

MCMI 

nO  I 


Of  this  edition  but  five  hundred 
copies  were  printed,  and  types 
then  distributed.  Each  copy  is 
numbered,  and  this  book  is 

Number  . 


Contents 

Page 

Men  of  Dartmouth.   By  Richard  Hovey  I 

The  Pastures  of  Parnassus.  By  Edwin  Osgood 

Graver  3 

The  Wine  of  Thought.   By  Kent  Knowlton  4 

English  Violets.   By  Richard  Hovey  5 

A  Mid- Winter  Song.  By  Ozora  Stearns  Davis  7 

Indian  Pipe.   By  Fred  Lewis  Pattee  8 

After  Death.   By  Charles  Francis  Richardson  9 

An  October  Song.   By  Daniel  Luther  Lawrence  I  o 

A  Sonnet.   By  William  Drummond  Baker  1 1 

Flood  Tide.   By  Edwin  Osgood  Graver  12 

Chopin.   By  Le  Baron  Monroe  Huntington  15 

Wedded.   By  Richard  Hovey  16 

The  Wind  and  the  Rose.  Anonymous  17 

Fame.   By  Le  Baron  Monroe  Huntington  19 

Season  Song.   By  Gordon  Hall  Gerould  2O 

Squab  Flights.   By  Richard  Hovey  21 

An  August  Noon.   By  Fred  Lewis  Pattee  22 

Enchantment.   By  Robert  Argyle  Campbell  23 

Pythias.   By  Ozora  Stearns  Davis  24 

A  Matin  Song.   By  John  Hiram  Gerould  25 

Herodotus.   By  Walter  Sydney  Adams  26 

Valentine  Song.   By  Robert  Argyle  Campbell  27 


Page 

Love's  Dawn.  By  William  Byron  Forbush  28 
The  White  Hills.  By  Charles  Frederick 

Robinson  29 

The  Youth  of  Love.   By  Ozora  Stearns  Davis  30 

A  Spanish  Air.   By  Fred  Lewis  Pattee  3 1 

World  and  Poet.   By  Richard  Hovey  33 

Cor  Cordium.   Anonymous  34 

Dawn.   By  Le  Baron  Monroe  Huntington  35 

/      Dead.   By  Richard  Hovey  36 

*      The  Promise  of  Youth.    By  Gordon  Hall 

Gerould  39 

A  Banquet  Song.  By  Charles  Frederick  Robinson  40 

Autumn,  By  John  Henry  Bartlett  41 

A  Nocturne.  By  Le  Baron  Monroe  Huntington  42 

Bohemia.  By  Richard  Hovey  43 

Still  Waiting.  By  Marshall  Putnam  Thompson  46 

Bacchic.  Anonymous  47 

Longing.  By  Charles  Frederick  Robinson  48 

Winter.  By  Richard  Hovey  49 

Autumn.  By  Fletcher  Harper  Swift  51 

To  the  Oriole.  By  Herbert  Salisbury  Hopkins  52 

The  Old  Pine.  By  Richard  Hovey  53 

Winter  Beauty.  By  Richard  Hovey  54 

Time.  By  Frederick  James  Allen  55 

Dizrins.  By  Daniel  Luther  Lawrence  56 
vi 


Pagt 

The   Pope's  Wine.    By  Marshal  Putnam 

Thompson  5  8 

June.  Anonymous  59 
The  Lotus-Eaters.  By  William  Drummond 

Baker  6 1 

Her  Promise.  By  Walter  Seager  Sullivan  62 

Villanelle.  By  Daniel  Luther  Lawrence  63 

The  South.  By  Richard  Hovey  65 

A  Rondeau.  By  Daniel  Luther  Lawrence  66 

"  Vox  Clamantis  in  Deserto."  Anonymous  67 
Coming  to  Anchor.  By  William  Drummond 

Baker  68 

Song.  By  Richard  Hovey  69 

The  Return.  By  Archibald  Blakeson  70 
The  Daughter  of  Dawn.  By  Le  Baron  Monroe 

Huntington  7 1 

Compensation.  By  Wilder  Dwight  ^uint  72 

Altruria.  By  Newton  Marshall  Hall  73 

Blind  Love.  By  Homer  Eaton  Keyes  74 

A  Triolet.  By  Kent  Knowlton  74 

A  Ballade  of  Mysteries.  By  Richard  Hovey  75 

The  Wind's  Message.  By  Ozora  Stearns  Davis  77 

A  Student's  Reverie.  By  Henry  Hildreth  Piper  78 

At  Eventide.  By  Bertrand  Adoniram  Smalley  79 

A  Dream.  By  William  Albert  Foster  80 
vii 


Page 

An  October  Day.   By  Ozora  Stearns  Davis  8 1 

Quatrains.   By  Sherman  Roberts  Moulton  82 

A  Winter  Sunset.   By  Charles  Pratt  Graham  83 

To  Violets  in  October.   By  Homer  Eaton  Keyes  84 

Drink  in  Reverence.  By  Robert  Meacham  Davis  85 

Eventide.   By  Homer  Eaton  Keyes  86 

Parting.   By  Robert  Meacham  Davis  87 

Rondel.   By  Daniel  Luther  Lawrence  88 

June.   By  Homer  Eaton  Keyes  89 

Autumn  Leaves.   By  Frederick  Oliver  Bradley  89 

The  Last  Spring.   By  Robert  Meacham  Davis  90 

Chickadees.   By  Frederick  Oliver  Bradley  91 

The  Frost.   By  Frederick  Oliver  Bradley  91 

In  Later  Days.   By  William  Byron  Forbtish  92 

Autumn.   By  Homer  Eaton  Keyes  92 

Banquet  Song.   By  Edwin  Osgood  Graver  93 


Vlll 


Acknowledgments 

THE  thanks  of  the  editors  are  ex- 
tended to  Professor  Emery  for  his 
valuable  assistance  in  the  selection  of 
the  verse  in  this  volume ;  to  Mr.  Keyes  for 
his  helpful  suggestions,  and  to  the  library 
officials  who  have  so  kindly  placed  the  files 
of  the  Dartmouth  periodicals  at  their  dis- 
posal. Acknowledgments  are  gratefully  ex- 
tended to  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Com- 
pany for  permission  to  use  the  following 
poems  :  "  World  and  Poet,"  "  The  South," 
"The  Old  Pine,"  "Squab  Flights,"  "Dead," 
"  Ballade  of  Mysteries,"  and  "  Men  of  Dart- 
mouth." 


Songs  of  the  Hill  Winds 


Men  of  Dartmouth. 

IN  of  Dartmouth,  give  a  rouse 
For  the  college  on  the  hill ! 
For  the  Lone  Pine  above  her 
And  the  loyal  men  that  love 

her, — 

Give  a  rouse,  give  a  rouse,  with  a  will 
For  the  sons  of  old  Dartmouth, 
The  sturdy  sons  of  Dartmouth, — 
Though  'round  the  girdled  earth  they  roam, 

Her  spell  on  them  remains  ; 
They  have  the  still  North  in  their  hearts, 

The  hill-winds  in  their  veins, 
And  the  granite  of  New  Hampshire 
In  their  muscles  and  their  brains. 

They  were  mighty  men  of  old 

That  she  matured  side  by  side ; 
Till  like  Vikings  they  forth 
From  the  lone  and  silent  North, —    - 

And  they  strove,  and  they  wrought,  and 

they  died ; 

But — the  sons  of  old  Dartmouth, 
The  laurelled  sons  of  Dartmouth — 
The  Mother  keeps  them  in  her  heart, 

And  guards  their  altar-flame  ; 
The  still  North  remembers  them, 

The  hill-winds  know  their  name, 
And  the  granite  of  New  Hampshire 
Keeps  the  record  of  their  fame. 


Men  of  Dartmouth,  set  a  watch 

Lest  the  old  traditions  fail ! 
Stand  as  brother  stands  by  brother ! 

Dare  a  deed  for  the  old  Mother ! 

Greet  the  world,  from  the  hills,  with  a  hail 
For  the  sons  of  old  Dartmouth, 
The  loyal  sons  of  Dartmouth — 
Around  the  world  they  keep  for  her 

Their  old  chivalric  faith  ; 
They  have  the  still  North  in  their  soul, 

The  hill-winds  in  their  breath  ; 
And  the  granite  of  New  Hampshire 

Is  made  part  of  them  till  death. 


N  the  parching  heat  of  the  dusty 

street 

That  skirts  Parnassus  hill, 
I  trudged  along  with  a  silent 

song, 

Yet  a  joy  serene  and  still. 
When,  lo,  by  the  roadside  a  poet  sat, 

Haggard  and  weary  and  grim  ; 
Between  his  knees  a  broken  harp 
That  would  not  sing  for  him. 

Through  the  cooling  shade  of  the  pastures 
there, 

By  the  rills  that  laughing  play, 
The  bard  had  roamed  with  his  ill-strung  harp 

Till  his  ragged  hair  was  gray. 
Morning  and  night  with  eternal  hope 

He  would  tie  the  broken  string, 
And  pleading  pray  the  gods  to  grant 

The  song  it  could  not  sing. 

The  vanquished  hopes  and  songless  harps 

That  on  Parnassus  lie  ! 

And  the  hearts  that  break  for  the  rapturous 
song 

That  alone  can  satisfy  ! 
And  so  in  the  heat  of  the  dusty  street 

That  skirts  Parnassus  hill, 
I  trudge  along  with  a  silent  song, 

Yet  a  joy  supreme  and  still. 

3 


The  Wine  of  Thought. 

[EEP  it  guarded  ever 

In   the     storehouse   of   thy 

brain. 
Poured  out,  it  shall  never 

Its  aroma  find  again. 
Let  the  heat  of  summer  thrill  it ; 
Let  the  cold  of  winter  chill  it, 
Till  it  gain  its  perfect  temper,  till  it  reach  its 
perfect  strain. 

Drink  not,  though  thou  longest 

For      the       cooling,      strengthening 

draught. 

Thine  own  soul  thou  wrongest ; — 
Such  a  wine  must  not  be  quaffed 
Till  old  age  hath  purified  it, 
Till  full  many  years  have  dyed  it 
With  the  colors  of  the  flowers  through  long 
summers  that  have  laughed. 

When  the  perfect  measure 
Of  its  days  hath  come  at  last, 

Bring  forth  then  thy  treasure, 

While  thy  thirsty  heart  beats  fast. 

Pour  thy  wine  of  richest  flavor, 

Sparkling,  filled  with  all  the  savor 
Of  the  years  that  thou  hast  vanquished,  of 
the  seasons  that  are  past. 


English  Violets. 

NGLISH  violets: 

Violets  her  hand  has  touched  ! 

Ah,  that  April  morning ! 

Ah,  the  sunlight ! 

Ah,  the  garden  odors  ! 
There  were  other  forms  than  earthly  by  me. 
Did  I  not  hear — ah  !  listen — 
In  the  air,  the  wing-beats  of  God's  angels  ? 

Then    I    turned,   and    saw   her  —  oh,   the 

wonder ! — 

Standing  like  a  seraph  in  the  sunlight, 
In  her  hand  this  tiny  violet-cluster — 
She  a  violet,  sweeter  far  than  these  were, 
Deeper,  purer,  holier,  more  mystic, 
Oh,  the  flood  of  sunlight  that  I  swam  in  ! 
Oh,  the  worship  !  oh,  the  adoration  ! 
When   she  smiled  and  cast  them  meward, 

smiling, 
In  the  April  days  when  Love  was  young. 

This  is  all  I  have  now — 

All  the  music  left  me — 

All   the   love  that  might  have    kinged  my 

nature, 
Dungeoned  in  the  casket  where  these  flowers 

are  ! 
All  the  tender  glory,  all  the  passion  ! 

5 


Shall  I  not,  in  other  worlds,  hereafter 
Meet  her  face  to  face,  and  know  her  truly 
Mine,  with    lovelight   streaming   from    her 

eyes? 

Is  it  but  for  earth-life  ?     I  can  bear  it, 
Bear  it,  though  earth's  air  grow  hot  hell-sul- 
phur ! 

But  if  death  unite  us  not — 
God  in   heaven  !  what  heaven  for  me  with- 
out her  ! 
Christ,  have  mercy  ! 


A  Mid- Winter  Song. 

LD    Winter   is    king,  and    the 

sleigh-bells  are  ringing ; 
The  red,  leaping  flames  up  the 

chimney  are  singing. 
Heap  wood  on  the  fires,  load 

tables  with  cheer : 
We'll  conquer  the  cold  at  the  birth  of  the 
year. 

The  mountains  and  hills  in  white  mantles 

are  sleeping, 
The  hues  of  the  summer  the  hemlocks  are 

keeping, 

And  over  the  windows,  in  tracings  of  white, 
New  forests  are  drawn  in  the  chill  of  the 

night. 

A  laugh  and  a  song  are  the  weapons   we 

wield : 

To  music  and  mirth  even  Winter  shall  yield, 
Though  now  o'er  the  meadows  the  wild  wind 

may  blow, 
And  heap  at  the  roadside  white  billows  of 

snow. 


Indian  Pipe. 

I  ALE  ghost  of  flowers, — 
That  in  the  midnight  hours, 

From  darkest  mould, 
Doth  in  the  inmost  coverts  of 

the  wood 
Rise  gaunt  and  cold, — 

Thou  art  akin  to  those  dim  lights  that  glower 
From  pestilential  swamp  at  midnight's  hour, 
Or  phantom  fogs  that  glide 
Along  the  river's  brim  at  even-tide. 

Art  thou  some  fay, 
That  at  the  break  of  day 

Forgot  to  flee  ? 
Or  yet  some  relic  of  that  elfin  crew, 

That  'neath  some  tree, 
At  midnight's  hour,  do  hold  high  carnival 
By  moonlight  scant,  or  light  of  glow-worm 

dull,— 

Surprised  by  owl  or  wind, 
Did  they  in  sudden  fright  leave  thee  behind  ? 

Speak,  phantom  flower ! 

Art  thou  from  Pluto's  bower, 

A  noisome  spray 
Beloved  by  Hecate  and  by  Proserpine  ? 

Speak,  flower,  and  say 
If  from  thy  petals  pale  and  clammy  vine 
A  mortal  hand  might  press  a  leaden  wine, 
A  cup  to  banish  pain 
And  woo  to  Lethe's  opiate  domain  ! 
8 


jHEN   I   forthfare  beyond    this 

narrow  earth, 
With     all     its     metes    and 

bounds  of  now  and  here, 
And  brooding  clouds  of  ig- 
norance and  fear 
That  overhung  me  on  my  day  of  birth, 
Where  through  the  jocund  sun's  perennial 

mirth 
Has  shone  more  inly  bright  each  coming 

year, 

With  some  new  glory  of  that  outer  sphere 
Where  length  and  breadth  and  height  are 

little  worth, 

Then  shall  I  find  that  even  here  below 
We  guessed  the  secret  of  eternity, 
And  learned  in  years  the  yearless  mystery ; 
For  in  our  earliest  world  we  came  to  know 
The  Master's  lesson  and  the  riddle's  key : 
Unending  love  unending  growth  shall  be. 


An  October  Song. 

OLDEN  apples  on  the  bough, 

Heaping  leaves  beneath ; 
Mellow    light     on     care-lined 

brow, 
Crowned  with  silvery  wreath. 

Songs  of  sunny  vintagers, 

Gathering  grapes  for  wine ; 
Ah  !  was  One  who  trod  alone, 

Treading  out  the  vine. 

Sunlit  haze,  October  days, 

Sweeter  joy  than  June  ; 
Sacred  rest  for  the  weary  breast, 

Deeper  than  mid-noon. 
Golden,  golden,  golden  days, 

Gold  that  is  not  mined  : 
Seraph  wings,  a  splendrous  maze, 

Wafting  down  the  wind. 


10 


A  Sonnet. 

that   sweet   morn   when  we 

stood  face  to  face, 
And  I  looked  deep  into  those 

lustrous  eyes, 
My  heart  bowed  low.    For  all 

the  light  that  lies 
In  thine  own  queenly  purity  and  grace 
Shone  forth.     And  then  I  cried  in  doubt, 

"  The  trace 
Of  low   thoughts    in    my  life    thou  wilt 

despise. 

I  am  unworthy."     But  with  slow  surprise, 
As  one  would  wake  from  dreams  to  find  the 

place 

Around  him  glorified,  I  heard  the  voice, 
That  very  voice  which  thrilled  me  through 

and  through 

But  yesterday,  saying  again,  "  My  choice, 
For  life  or  death,  forever  is  in  you." 

And  I  am  counted  worthy  to  rejoice 
In  such  a  love !     O  heart,  can  it  be  true  ? 


ii 


Flood  Tide. 

A  Prairie  Hymn. 

N  the  lisp  of  the  grass  it  was 
audible,    in    the    whisper  of 
winds  it  was  heard, 
My  soul  was  a-thrill  with  the 
news  of  it  long  e'er  a  glimmer 
had  stirred. 
Each  star  in   the  sky  was  aware  of  it,  the 

moon  was  awake  and  a-hark, 
Yet  never  a  sound  in  the  silence  and  never  a 

rift  in  the  dark. 

But,  lo !  in  the  Easta  ripple  of  tenuous  light 
Is  unrolled  from  the  uttermost  depths  of 

the  darkness  of  Night, 
A  flicker  of  dawn  as  if  angels  for  keeping 

of  mass 

Had  lit  every  tip  of  the  terminal,orient  grass, 
And  passed  in  to  worship.     But  oh,  how 
far,  how  far ! 

'Tis  the  wake  of  a  star ! 
Nay,   'tis  the   turning  of  tide;   a  palpitant 
wave  and  thin  ; 

'Tis  the  Day  coming  in ! 

With  timorous  tread  encircling  the  skirts  of 

Night, 
This   hint  of  glory  out-widens,    a  pool  of 

virginal  light ; 

12 


As  a  star  down-dropped  from  an  angel's 

hand 
Would  widen  in  circles  to  compass  the 

land. 

Forever  out-reaching,  out-reaching,  so, 
This   glimmer   of    dawn    burns    brighter 

till,  lo ! 
'Tis  a  flame  dim  revealing  the  edge  of  the 

world 

And  hangs  like  a  banner  unfurled ; 
A  fluttering  streamer  of  light, 
From  the  crest  of  the  Night. 

O  wide-eyed,  wondering   stars  !     Dreamers 

of  dreams  ! 
Ye  must  drown  in  the  incoming  gleams 

Of  the  Day. 
But  say,  oh  !  say, 

Does  the  death  of  the  Day  ever  fear  you  ? 
Is  the  night  e'er  by  you  to  cheer  you  ? 
O  little,  bright  stars  all-confiding, 
With  Faith  e'er  abiding,  abiding, 
How  trusting  ye  are  ! 

Good-by,  little  star  ! 
And  hark,  O  my  soul ! 
Can  ye  hear  not  the  billows  that  roll  ? 
Can  ye  see  not  the  tremulous  flow 
That  purples  the  East  ?     Lo  ! 
With  its  glory  submerging,  submerging, 
The  surf  of  the  sunlight  is  surging 

13 


Hard,  hard  on  the  emerald  shore. 

A  gasp  !     And  the  Night  is  no  more ! 

And  soft  in  the  weft  of  the  grasses  over  the 

prairie-sea, 
The  tide  of  Day  flows  westward  over  the 

world  and  me. 


Chopin. 

IHOU  weird  and  wizard  spirit 

of  the  night, 
Who  shall    breathe  sounds   of 

such  sweet  witchery 
As  angels  never  whispered  save 

to  thee  ? 
Thy  soaring  soul  sought  realms   of  starry 

light; 

Inspired,  alone  thou  trodst  the  dizzy  height, 
And  from  the  cool,  damp  wells  of  night  thy 

free, 

Untrammelled  spirit  drank  in  ecstasy. 
Celestial  angels,  robed  in  spotless  white, 
Struck  all  their  quivering  harps  of  gold  for 

thee, 

And  surfeited  with  such  sweet  harmony, 
Thy  soul  sought  once  again  the  earth  and 

caught 

The  moaning  of  the  pines,  the  sobbing  sea, 
And  blended  all  in  songs  ineffably 
With  ecstasy  and  pathos  interwrought. 


Wedded. 

IIRDS  are  singing  in  the  closes, — 

Singing  for  joy  of  June. 
Scent  of  English  violets 
Mingles  with  the  mignonette's; 
And  the  garden's  red  with  roses, 
When  the  glad  brown  thrushes  croon — 
Thrushes  crooning  in  the  closes 
All  this  rose-sweet  June. 

Rarer  joy  than  yours  has  found  me, 

Birds  of  the  rose-sweet  June. 
Maidenhood  with  Maytime  ended  ; 
Love,  the  strong  one,  o'er  me  bended, 
And  with  orange  blossoms  crowned  me 

In  the  hot,  sweet  summer  noon. 
Rarer  joy  than  yours  has  found  me, — 

Love's  year  has  its  June. 


16 


The  Wind  and  the  Rose. 

N    a   shady  nook    a    rosebush 

grew, 
Its   blossoms  were  white  as  a 

lily  fair, 
Its  petals  were  kissed  by  the 

passing  breeze, 
Which  whispered  of  love  among  its  leaves, 
And  its  fragrance  filled  the  air. 

Through  the  happy  months  of  the  summer- 
time 

The  wind  kissed  the  rose  in  passing  by, 
Till  a  feeling  of  love  between  them  grew, 
And  the  wind  his  softest  breezes  blew 

From  out  the  Western  sky. 

For  the  gentle  rose  and  its  sweet  perfume 
Had  robbed  the  wind  of  his  wild  rough  play, 

And  her  kisses,  warm  with  the  breath  of 
love, 

And  leaves  as  pure  as  the  clouds  above, 
Strengthened  his  fetters,  day  by  day. 

And  the  wind  passed  on  to  other  lands, 
But  his  voice  was   softened,  his  might  sub- 
dued, 

The  grasses  freshened  beneath  his  feet, 
And  the   timid  birds  in  the  woods  sang 

sweet 
And  rejoiced  in  his  milder  mood. 

17 


And  now  when  the  winter's  snows  are  deep, 
And  the  rose  is  stripped  of  her  leaves  and 

bare, 
A   warm   breath  comes    from  the  sunny 

South, 

And  the  rose  again  renews  her  youth 
And  appears  in  her  bridal  robes  as  fair. 


18 


Fame. 

[IS  reached  by  few  with  years  of 

toil  and  pain, 
And   ruined  fellow-men  oft 

pay  the  price 
With  broken  hearts  as  fickle 

fortune's  dice 

Award  to  others  what  they  would  attain. 
Yet  souls  are  staked  and  lost  in  grim  disdain 
Of  love  and  justice,  and  on  hearts  of  ice 
Unheeded  falls  the  voice  of  sin  and  vice 
And  misery,  for  fame  recks  naught  but  gain 
And  seeks  in  selfishness  the  gleaming  gold 
Or  approbation  of  the  vulgar  crowd 

Of  envious  men.     Methinks  'tis  nobler 

far 

To  win  in  life's  great  commonplace  a  hold 
Upon  the  hearts  of  men,  with  wealth  endowed 
Of  one  pure  woman's  love  which  naught 
can  mar. 


Season  Song. 

NCING  down  the  path  she 
came, 

Merrily,  merrily  oh  ! 
Ruddy  cheeks  and  eyes  aflame, 

Singing,  oh  merrily  oh  ! 

Roses  for  the  garden. 

Summer's  dear  delights, 
Holly  for  the  high-roofed  hall, 

When  the  north  wind  bites. 

Underfoot  she  trod  the  snow, 

Child  of  a  frost-bound  clime, 
Cared  not  that  the  sun  wheeled  low, 

Singing  of  holiday  time. 

May-day  with  its  flowers, 
Crowns  the  spring  s  delights. 

Christmas  gladdens  more  than  all. 
Though  the  keen  cold  bites. 

Seasons  all  have  gladness, 

Changes  life  like  year. 
Roses  fade  and  snow-flakes  fally 

Tet  we  know  not  fear. 


20 


Squab  Flights. 

JOVE    is  eternal,"   sang  I    long 

ago 
Of    some     light    love    that 

lasted  for  a  day  ; 
But  when  the  fleeting  fancy 

passed  away, 
And    other    loves,  that   following  made  as 

though 

They  were  the  very  deathless,  lost  the  glow 
Youth  mimics  the  divine  with,  and  grew 


I  said,  "  It  is  a  dream  :  no  love  will  stay." 
Angels  have  taught  me  wisdom.      Now  I 

know, 
Though  lesser  loves  and  greater  loves  may 

cease, 
Love   still    endures,  knocking  at  myriad 

gates 
That   lead    to    God  —  stars,   winds     and 

waters,  birds, 
Beasts,  flowers    and    men  —  speaking    in 

sweetest  words 

At  woman's  portal,  till  it  finds  its  peace 
In  the  abyss  where   Godhead   loves  and 

waits. 


21 


An  August  Noon. 

[HE  swooning  meadows  lie  like 

summer  seas  ; 

The  landscape  reels :  a  quiv- 
ering, ghastly  gleam 
Bedims  the  fields ; — as    in  a 

spell  they  seem, 
Save  where  the  redtop  rolls  with  scarce  a 

breeze. 

The  mowers  in  the  clover  to  their  knees 
Seem  treading  out  the  mazes  of  a  dream. 
No   sound,  save   far    away    the    locust's 

scream, 
Or  dreamily  a  bird-voice  in  the  trees. 

The  cricket's  monotone  amid  the  grass 
Is  scarcely  heard, — a  soothing  lullaby, — 
And  steady  drones  the  summer-sounding 
bee. 

The  mingled  notes  to  sleepy  murmurs  pass, 
Without  a  sound  floats  o'er  a  butterfly, 
And  drowsiness  and  dreams  steal  over  me. 


22 


Enchantment. 

(Down  in  the  dingle  the  arbutus  blossoms.} 

AIREST  of  flowers,  the  mod- 
est way 
In   which   thou    hidest   thy 

dainty  face, 
Thy      sweetness     and     thy 

charming  grace, 
Marks  thee  the  best  of  the  gifts  of  May. 

(Deep  in  the  closes  the  hermit  thrush  singe  th.) 

Rarest  of  songsters,  the  melody 

And  love  and  joy  of  thy  pure  voice 
Makes  longing  soul  and  heart  rejoice — 

Wonderful  spirit  of  harmony. 

(Far  on  the  uplands  the  light  zephyr  bloweth.} 

Warmed  by  the  sunshine,  thy  mellowness 
Gives  strength  to  flowers  and  bird  and  me, 
Acknowledging  thy  sovereignty, 

Blessed  by  thy  powerful  pleasantness. 

(Down  in  yon  hamlet  dwelleth  my  sweetheart.} 

Wither,  Arbutus  !     Be  silent,  Bird  ! 
And  thou,  O  Zephyr,  cease  to  blow— 
Your  charms  are  overmatched  so  ! 

What  are  they,  pray  ?     I  have  never  heard. 


Pythias. 

LONG  to  find  one  soul  akin 

to  mine, 
One  heart  so  like  mine  own 

that  it  would  see 
With  pitying  eyes  my  soul's 
infirmity, 

And  show  for  it  some  sympathetic  sign ; 
One  heart  where  I,  as  to  a  votive  shrine, 
Might  bring  my  toils  and  victories  trust- 
ing^ 

And  know  that  there  was  ever  place  for 

me— 
For  triumph,  joy  ;  for  wounds,  love's  oil  and 

wine. 
I   yearn    to    know   the   rapture  that  would 

grow, 
As  years  made  holier  our  sweet,  common 

way; 

To  brave  together  life's  wide,  beating  sea, 
Undaunted  by  whatever  wind  might  blow, 
And  then,  as  darkness  closes  on  the  day, 
To  pass,  through  death,  to  love's  eternity. 


24 


A  Matin  Song. 

[EN   May,  her  odorous  locks 

unbound, 
Comes  floating  on  the  balmy 

air, 
She   scatters    snowy    blossoms 

round, 
And  joy  and  mirth  are  everywhere. 

In  every  bush  a  songster  trills 

Unto  his  mate  a  lay  of  love  ; 
And  every  blade  of  grass  distils 

A  nectar  from  the  mists  above. 

'T  is  sweet  to  brush  the  sparkling  dew, 
When  morning's  air  is  full  of  song. 

Then    lovers'    hearts    thrill    through    and 

through, 
And  life  is  gay,  and  hope  is  strong. 


Herodotus. 

LONG,  dim,   storied    vista   of 

the  years, 
Where  stalk  the  shadowy  forms 

of  kings  of  old. 
The    bearded    monarchs   who 

have  long  been  mold 
Here   show   us    human    hopes   and  human 

fears, 

A  pageant  of  sad  figures,  veiled  in  tears, 
Behind  which  human  lives  are  bought  and 

sold : 

What  matters  it  whether  for  blood  or  gold, 
Since    Death,    the    landlord,  has    paid    all 

arrears  ? 

As  in  a  dream  we  seem  to  hear  afar 
The  marshalling  of  Xerxes's  hosts  to  war ; 
The  rush  of  white-winged  triremes  o'er  the 

blue; 

The  insurgent  Greeks  to  Sardis  marching  on ; 
And  then  with  Cyrus's  lords  we  enter  through 
The  river  gates  of  princely  Babylon. 


26 


Valentine  Song. 

EAREST,  let  these  roses 

In  their  purity 
Be  a  present  symbol 
Of  my  love  for  thee. 

Underneath  the  blossom 
Thorns  are  sure  to  grow ; 
Take  heed  lest  you  touch  them, 
They  would  pain  you  so  ! 

Ah  !  my  faults  like  thorns  are, 

But  cannot  they  be 
Hidden  'neath  the  flower 

Of  my  love  for  thee  ? 


27 


Love's  Dawn. 

[OVE  has  been  singing,  oh,  so 

long  in  me, 
First  softly,  half  unheard,  a 

dreamy  lay, 
Like  twitterings  of  birds  be- 

fore the  day, 
From  their  brown  nests  in  every  maple-tree  ; 
Then  a  clear  note  rang  out  so  wild  and  free, 
Just  as  the  eastern  clouds  turned  red  from 


Loud  heralding  the  sun,  upon  his  way 
Up  the  broad  heavens,  in  regal  majesty  ; 
Then  long,  bright  rays  shot  up  athwart  the 

sky, 
And    with    accompaniment    of    flute-like 

notes, 

Rose  a  sweet  overture,  serene  and  strong. 
And   now  a  flood   of  light  spreads  far  and 

high, 
There  comes  a  burst  from  myriad  silver 

throats, 
And  the  whole    world  is  bathed  in   light 

and  song. 


28 


The  White  Hills. 

HEN     Horace     sang,     Soracte 

stood, 

Clothed  white  with  snow, 
While  lofty  spires  of  dark  fire- 
wood 
Waved  far  below. 
The  poet  saw,  and  struck  the  lyre 

To  praise  the  bowl, 
The  maiden's  charms,  a  blazing  fire, 
And  ancient  scroll. 

O  could  he  see  you,  granite  hills, 

Sublimely  grand — 
Where  every  height  with  wonder  thrills 

Aloft  ye  stand — 
He'd  spurn  the  yielding  velvet  couch, 

And  bound  away 
Where  ye,  great  lions,  proudly  crouch, 

At  dawn  of  day  ; 

And,  gazing  from  your  loftiest  peak, 

Would  drink  the  wine 
Of  bracing  air  and  sights  that  speak 

Of  hand  divine. 
Ye  bring  the  message  full  and  clear 

From  God  to  man ; 
Ye  feed  the  soul  with  wine  more  dear 

Than  Caecuban. 


29 


The  Youth  of  Love. 

HEN    Love  was    young,    the 
whole  round  world  was 


When     Love     was     young, 
came  in  the  age  of  gold, 
And   lover's    music    Love's   sweet   story 

told 

To  hearts  that  beat  responsive  roundelay. 
But  now  that  Love  is  old,  no  longer  play 
The  reedy  pipes  ;  the  lover's  tale  is  told 
In  terms  of  modern  profit,  stern  and  cold  ; 
The  time  of  mirth  and  dreams  has  passed 

away. 
So  say  the  skeptics.    False  !    The  pipes  of 

Pan 

Still  play  at  Love's  omnipotent  behest, 
As  first  they  played  when  Love's  glad  song 

began; 

The  holy  prize  is  still  full  worth  the  quest  ; 
The  age  of  gold  returns  to  every  man 

Who  makes  the  Archer-god  his  welcome 
guest. 


A  Spanish  Air. 

|OME  "  cried  the  mandolin  ; 
In  low,  sweet  passion  pleaded 

the  guitar, 

"  The  sunlands  call  to  thee, 
The  wonder  lands  below  the 

southern  star. 
Oh,  come  !  afar  !  afar  ! 
A  richer  life  and  beauty  wait  thee  there, 
A  sweeter  muse,  voluptuous  and  fair, 
Awaits  thy  song,  and  there  an  infant  Pan 
Is  born  where  western  beauty  first  began 
In  lands  afar." 

Still  thrilled  the  mandolin, 

Its  strangely  sweet  and  penetrating  note ; 
And  still  the  low  guitar, 

Filled  in  the  pleading  strain  with  mellow 

throat. 

"  Oh,  come  !  afar  !  afar  ! 
The  lotus  land  below  the  burning  zone 
Is  calling  thee,  is  calling  thee  alone, 
Come,  sweet  one,  bring  thy  love  and  song  to 

me, 
In  lands  afar." 

0  mystic  mountain  land, 

Sweet  land  that  fronts  the   future  and  the 
past, 

1  fly,  I  fly  to  thee, 

For  thou  the  promise  of  the  future  hast. 


I  come  !  afar  !  afar  ! 

Not  long  with  pleading  face  thou  liest  prone, 
But  thou  shalt  rise,  and  'neath  the  burning 

zone 

Shall  build  Parnassus,  higher  than  the  old, 
And  bring  again  the  poet's  age  of  gold 

In  lands  afar. 


World  and  Poet. 

[ING  for  us,  poet,  for  our  hearts 

are  broken  ! 
Sing   us    a   song   of  happy, 

happy  love  ! 
Sing  of  the  joy  that  words  leave 

all  unspoken  ! 
The  lilt  and  laughter  of  life — Oh,    sing 

thereof! 
Oh,  sing  of  life,  for  we  are  sick  and  dying ! 

Oh,  sing  of  love,  for  all  our  love  is  dead ! 
Oh,  sing  of  laughter,  for  we  know  but  sigh- 
ing! 
Oh,  sing  of  kissing,  for  we  kill  instead  !  " 

How  should  he  sing  of  happy  love,  I  pray, 
Who  drank  Love's  cup  of  anguish  long 

ago? 

How  should  he  sing  of  life  and  joy  and  day, 
Who  whispers   death    to  end    his    night 

of  woe  ? 

And  yet  the  poet  took  his  lyre  and  sang 
Till  all  the  dales  with  happy  echoes  rang. 


33 


Cor  Cordium. 

[E  sunset  glow  has  faded  from 

the  sky  ; 
The  mottled  thrush  has  moaned 

her  requiem  lay 
And  ushered  to   the  past  the 

dying  day. 
The  leaden  clouds  in  gloomy  legions  lie, 
The  silk  winged  owlet  wails  his  eerie  cry ; 
But  through  the  dusky  pines  a  heavenly  ray 
Across  the  silent  blackness  steals  its  way, 
And  peaceful  starlight  thrills  the  weary  eye. 
O,  heart   of  hearts,    be   strong  and  full  of 

cheer, 

Not  ever  shalt  thou  dwell  in  shrouded  night, 
Not  ever  thus  with  hopeless  thought  be  rent. 
Thy  star  shall  rise  and  flash  her  radiance 

clear, 

Of  blessed  love  athwart  thy  raptured  sight, 
And  shine  for  aye,  and  thou  shalt  be  content. 


34 


Dawn. 

[RISING    from    her   perfumed, 

cloud-hung  bed, 
Fair    Dawn    unclasped    the 

robes  of  sleepy  Night 
And   tenderly    her   eyes    so 

starry  bright 
Soft  closed  with  sweetest   sleep,  and  laid  her 

head 
To  rest,  soft-pillowed  in  the  west ;    thence 

fled, 
O'er  hills  and  sleeping   streams  in  eager 

flight, 

To  greet  her  lover  sun  with  fairest  sight. 
She  bound  bright   golden  bands  about  her 

head 

Of  dusky  hair ;  her  rosy  fingers  clasped 
About  her  maiden  form  soft  robes,  pearl- 
gray' 
Bedecked  with  diamonds  of  the  crystal 

dew; 
And   from    the   grassy,    morning   meadows 

grasped 

A  filmy  veil  lest  crimson  blush  betray 
Her  virgin  heart  to  Phoebus's  eager  view. 


35 


Dead. 

H,  God  !    how  strange  the  rat- 
tling in  the  street 
Comes    to   me    where    I  lie 

and  the  hours  pass. 
I   watch  a   beetle   crawling  up 

the  sheet 
That  covers  me,  and  curiously  note 

The  green  and  yellow  back  like  mouldy 

brass ; 

And  cannot  even  shudder  at  the  thought 
How  soon  the  loathsome  thing  will  reach 
my  face. 

And  by  such  things  alone  I  measure  out 
The  slow  drip  of  the  minutes  from  Time's 

eaves. 

For  if  I  think  of  when  I  lived,  I  doubt 
It  was  but  yesterday   I   brushed  the  flow- 
ers ; 
But  when  I  think  of  what  I  am,  thought 

leaves 

The  weak  mind  dizzy  in  a  waste  of  hours. 
O    God,    how    happy    is   the    man    that 
grieves  ! 

Life  ?     It  was  life  to  look  upon  her  face, 
And  it  was   life  to  weep  when  she  was 

gone; 

But  this  new  horror  ! — In  the  market-place 
36 


A  form,  in  all  things  like  me  as  I  moved 
Of  old,  is  marked  or  hailed  of  many  an 

one 
That  takes  it  for  his  friend  that  lived  and 

loved, — 
And  I  laugh  voicelessly,  a  laugh  of  stone. 

For  here  I  lie  and  neither  move  nor  feel, 
And   watch   that    Other   pacing   up   and 

down 

The  room,  or  pausing  at  his  potter's  wheel 
To  turn  out  cunning  vessels  from  the  clay, 
Vessels  that  he  will  hawk  about  the  town 
And  then  return  to  work  another  day 

Frowning,    but    I, — I   neither   smile   nor 
frown. 

I  see  him  take  his  coat  down  from  the  peg 
And  put  it  on,  and  open  the  white  door, 
And  brush  some  bit  of  cobweb  from  his  leg, 
And  look  about  the  room  before  he  goes ; 
And  then  the  clock  goes  ticking  as  be- 
fore, 

And  I  am  with  him  and  know  all  he  does, 
And  I   am  here  and  tell   each  clock-tick 
o'er. 

The  men  are  praising  him  for  subtle  skill ; 
And  women  love  him — God  alone  knows 

why ! 

He  can  have  all  the  world  holds  at  his  will — 
37 


But  this,  to  be  a  living  soul,  and  this 
No  man  but  I  can  give  him ;  and  I  lie 

And  make  no  sign,  and  care  not  what  he  is, 
And  hardly  know  if  this  indeed  be  I. 

Ah,  if  she  came  and  bent  above  me  here, 
Who  lie  with  straight  bands  bound  about 

my  chin  ! 

Ah,  if  she  came  and  stood  beside  this  bier 
With  aureoles  as  of  old  upon  her  hair 

To  light  the  darkness  of  this  burial  bin  ! 
Should  I  not  rise  again  and  breathe  the  air 
And  feel  the  veins  warm  that  the  blood 
beats  in  ? 

Or  should  I  lie  with  sinews  fixed,  and  shriek 
As  dead  men  shriek  and  make  no  sound  ? 

Should  I 
See  her  gray  eyes   look  love  and  hear  her 

speak, 

And  be  all  impotent  to  burst  my  shroud  ? 
Will  the  dead  never  rise  from  where  they 

lie? 

Or  will  they  never  cease  to  think  so  loud  ? 
Or  is  to  know  and  not  to  be,  to  die  ? 


The  Promise  of  Youth. 


NTO  the  van  they  come 
With  the  thunderous  tread  of 

feet, 
A  myriad  throng   where  hearts 

beat  strong, 
Till  the  foes  of  fate  they  meet. 

Who  are  the  youth  that  come 
With  the  high  souls  visioned  clear  ? 
A  host  of  might  for  truth  to  fight 
And  their  strong  hearts  know  not  fear. 

Into  the  van  they  come 
Where  the  storm  and  battle  swirl. 
Nor  who  will  doubt  and  wheel  about, 
And  the  brave  flag  who  unfurl  ? 

Hark  to  the  songs  that  come, 
The  untroubled  victor's  lay, 
The  chants  of  peace  and  glad  increase 
When  the  strife  has  passed  away. 

Into  the  van  they  come, 

All  the  youth  of  teeming  hope. 

Now  hear  them  sing  what  time  will  bring 

As  the  vanguard  climb  the  slope. 


39 


A  Banquet  Song. 

bonum,  quamque  jucundumyfratres  habi- 
tare  in  unum. 

|OW  sweet  when  brothers  dwell 

in  harmony." 
So  sighed  the  weary  monk, 

when,  worn  with  pain, 
His     frame     with      torture 

racked,  he  died  to  gain 
A  martyrdom  by  truth  and  sanctity ; 
O'er  all  his  soul  poured  soft  the  melody 
Of  music    sweet    when    sang    the    white- 
cowled  train, 

And  nave  to  chancel  echoed  back  again 
The  brotherhood's  low,  soothing  minstrelsy. 
So  we,  whose  years  are  bright  and  few, 

Whose   hearts  with  youth's  strong  pulse 

throb  cheerily, 

Who  seek  the  truth  of  being  earnestly, 
Chant  the  old  song  to-night  with  fervor  new, 
While  arch  and  rafter  sound  back  joyously, 
"  How  sweet  when  brothers  dwell  in  har- 
mony." 


40 


Autumn. 

[OU  aged  goddess  of  the  year, 
With  hasty  stride, 
And  garments  dyed 
In    shades    of  grayish    brown, 

and  sear, 
We  hear  thy  fast-advancing  tread 
As  thou  dost  go 
To  realms  of  snow, 

Where   sparkling  wreaths    shall   crown  thy 
head. 

Thou'st  brought  us  many  treasures  rare. 

The  rip'ning  clime 

Of  harvest  time 

Is  the  sacred  object  of  thy  care. 
The  blushing  fruit  and  waving  grain 

We  quickly  store, 

And  thee  adore, — 
While  trusting  thou  wilt  come  again. 

Fair  goddess,  haste  thee  not  away, 

But  tarry  here 

Our  hearts  to  cheer — 
Prolong  to  us  thy  parting  day ; 
For  many  here,  ere  again  we  see 

Thy  gentle  hand, 

At  Death's  command 
Will  join  the  vast  eternity. 


A  Nocturne. 

HE  soft  and  sylph-like  shadows 

throw 

A  robe  about  the  dying  day  ; 
And    dark-eyed     Night,   with 

laughter  low, 
Trails  in  the  sky  her  glittering  train. 

The  soft,  sweet-scented  western  wind 
Seems  but  the  breath  of  lovely  Night, 

As  through  the  latticed  open  blind 
It  moves  me  with  its  whisperings. 

The  soothing  voice  of  rippling  streams, 
The  music  of  the  meadow  marsh, 

But  lulls  me  with  delicious  dreams 
And  I  am  lost  in  slumberland. 


42 


Bohemia. 

S  shall  none  blind ; 
Comrades,  we're  free ; 
Free  as  the  wind, 
Free  as  the  sea — 
Free  ! 


Oh,  why  should  we 
Be  the  slaves  of  words  ? 
Here  we  are  free, 
Free  as  the  birds — 
Free  ! 

Free  from  the  lies 
We  loathe  and  despise, 
Free  to  laugh, 
Free  to  quaff 
Rhine  wine  or  lager  beer- 
Even  whiskey 
In  our  frisky 
Moments  here. 

Here  we  are  free  ; 
Free  to  say 
What  we  will ; 
Free  to  be  sad, 
Free  to  be  gay ; 
Free  to  reveal 
All  we  may  be, 
Good  or  bad. 

43 


Here  is  the  real, 
Here  the  ideal. 
Here  the  poor  hardship 
A  week  recalls  not, 
Here  glory  of  hardship 
That  passes  all  thought. 

True,  sometimes  troubles 

May  to  us  belong — 

They  are  the  bubbles 

The  stream  does  not  heed  em, 

But  flows  along 

In  thunders  of  freedom 

And  tempest  of  song. 

Laugh,  you  shallow 
Worldling !     Laugh, 
You,  too,  callow 
Beardless  calf! 
Laugh  ! 

I  tell  you  that  we, 

While  you  are  smirking 

And  lying  and  shirking 

Life's  duty  of  duties, 

Honest  sincerity, 

We  are  in  verity 

Free — 

Free  to  rejoice 

In  blisses  and  beauties, 

Free  as  the  voice 

44 


Of  the  wind  as  it  passes, 

Free  as  the  bird 

In  the  weft  of  the  grasses5 

Free  as  the  word 

Of  the  sun  the  sea — 

Free ! 


45 


Still  Waiting. 

[OWN    upon    the    long    coast 

stretches, 
Where  the  sand-dunes  met  the 

sea, 
Half  buried,  lie  the  gray  old 

timbers 
Of  the  fair  ship,  Fleur  de  Lis. 

Still  Dame  Margaret  of  Cherbourg, 
Scans  the  billows,  day  by  day. 
Twenty  years  have  rolled  their  cycles, 
Since  her  good  man  sailed  away. 

Every  evening  finds  her  saying, 
"  Sure,  he'll  come  before  the  light." 
Every  morning  finds  her  praying, 
"  Send  him,  Lord,  before  the  night." 

Still  upon  the  long  coast  stretches, 
Where  the  sand-dunes  meet  the  sea, 
Half  buried,  lie  the  gray  old  timbers 
Of  the  fair  ship,  Fleur  de  Lis. 


Bacchic. 

lOUR  out  the  sparkling  wine, 
For  in  this  heart  of  mine 
Wild  longings  burn  and  glow ; 
I  would  quench  them  with  the 

flow 

Of  the  mirth-god's  gift  divine. 

Soft  eyes  may  tender  beam, 
Love  in  their  depths  may  gleam, 
Naught  bringing  save  unrest. 
Wreathe  the  cup  with  flowery  crest, 
Hail  to  Lethe's  blissful  stream  ! 

Ay,  hail  the  current  wide ! 
For  on  the  farther  side 
Lies  fair  Elysium's  strand, 
Where  the  shades  forgetful  stand, 
Quaff  the  blood-red  Lethe's  tide  ! 


47 


Longing. 

[HEN  thy  fair  face  is  far,  so  far 

away, 
When  all  around  I  struggle 

through  life's  throng, 
And   all    around    me    rises 
cheering  song 

From  gentle,  happy  souls,  content  and  gay, 
Who,  toiling  in  the  sunlight  of  the  day, 
Find  other  souls  whose  faithful  love  and 

strong 

Sustains  and  helps  them  all  the  way  along — 
When  marriage  bells  sound  near  me  on  the 

way — 
My  heart,  too,  e'er  is  light,  for  well  I  know 

Thy  love  eternal  is  for  me,  for  me ; 
Yet,  like  the  undertone  of  unseen  woe, 

Which  ever  threads  the  brighter  melody, 
Like  echo  of  a  sob,  distraught  and  low, 
My  soul  calls  out,  "  O  Love,  I  long  for 
thee." 


Winter. 

CE  and  snow — ice  and  snow 
Everywhere  the  eye  can  go. 
Winter  like  a  stern  old  king, 
Lonely,  silent,  sorrowing, 
Waits  but  to  end  his  cheerless 

reign 
And  die  and  meet  his  love  again. 

For  she  who  should  have  been  his  bride 
Ere  their  lips  knew  kisses,  died. 
That's  the  reason,  all  men  know, 
That  Winter's  hair  is  white  as  snow 
And  he  seems  a  stern  old  king, 
Lonely,  silent,  sorrowing. 

When     Summer    comes     and     claims     his 

crown 

He  will  sigh  and  lay  it  down. 
He  will  die — he  will  die- 
When  the  snow  flies  he  will  fly 
Once^  again  his  love  to  see 
In  the  land  of  Faerie. 

Far  away — far  away 
Where  the  roses  bloom  for  aye, 
Dwells  a  maiden  fairer  far 
Than  the  fairest  roses  are, 
And  she  loves  me,  Winter,  true 
As  your  lost  one  loveth  you. 

49 


I  shall  meet  her  once  again, 

When  Summer  comes  and  ends  your  reign. 

We  will  both  be  happy  then. 

Ice  and  snow — ice  and  snow— 

And  my  heart  is  aching  so. 

Winter,  Winter,  haste  and  go. 


Autumn. 

[S   Autumn ;    all    the   world   a 

pageant  keeps, 
The  lordly  hills  their  crimson 

tints  have  raised, 
And  flung  out  golden  banners 

for  display, 
Where    ages    long   their   royal   crests    have 
blazed. 

Yet  I,  as  one  who  sits  him  at  the  feast 
With  weary  eye  and  heavily  laden  breast, 
Am  sad  amid  this  splendor  of  earth's  pomp, 
And  all  my  heart  with  sorrow  is  oppressed. 

For  in  the  triumph  song  that  beats  the  sky 
And  shakes  the  banners  of  the  hills,  I  hear 
The  sighs  of  dying  leaves  and  pale-faced 

flowers, 
Unseen,  unheeded,  sinking  on  their  bier. 

O  Autumn,  glorious  sunset  of  the  year, 
When  all  the  world  burns  mad  with  wine 

and  light, 
Thy  hands  are  bounteous,  but  thy  feet  are 

cruel, 
And  barren,  dark  and  barren  is  thy  night. 


To  the  Oriole. 

IGHTLY     swinging,     sweetly 

singing, 

In  the  budding  trees, 
Rapturous  song  is  borne  along 
On  the  scented  breeze. 

Golden  throated,  joyous  noted, 

In  the  bright  spring  days  ; 
Happy  creature  !  what  a  teacher 

Of  the  art  of  praise ! 

With  thy  trilling  thou  art  rilling 

All  the  balmy  air ; 
Thine  is  pleasure  without  measure, 

Song  is  everywhere. 

Cease  your  singing,  cease  your  swinging, 

Fly  unto  your  nest. 
The  shades  are  falling,  night  is  calling 

Nature  to  its  rest. 


The  Old  Pine. 

stood  upon  the  hill  like  some 

old  chief, 
And  held  communion  with 

the  cryptic  wind, 
Keeping   like   some    dim   un- 

forgotten  grief 
The     memory    of    tribesmen     autumn- 
skinned, 
Silent   and   slow   as   clouds,  whose  footing 

passed 

Down  the  remote  trails  of  oblivion 
Long  since  into  the  caverns  of  the  past. 
Alone,  aloof,  strong  fellow  of  the  sun, 
We  chose  it  for  our  standard  in  its  prime, 
Nor — though  no  longer  grimly  from  its 

hill 
It  fronts  the  world,  like  Webster — wind  not 

time 

Has  felled  its  austere  ghost,  we  see  it  still, 
In  alien  lands,  resurgent  and  undying 

Flag  of  our  hearts,  from  sudden  ramparts 
flying. 


53 


Winter  Beauty. 

ID-WEEK  of  midwinter  !  Day- 
break !     It  is  snowing, 
And    I    look    out    on    my 

garden  from  my  room, 
Where  a  six-month  since  my 

roses  were  a-blowing — 
Red  and  white  and  tea  roses  all  in  bloom. 
Now   the  snow  is  falling,  falling,  still,  re- 
lentless ; 
Everywhere  the  eye  turns,  only  flakes  of 

snow — 
Ghosts  of  summer's   rose  leaves,  colorless 

and  scentless, 

Come  to   haunt  the  gardens  where  they 
used  to  grow. 

Ah  !  the  ice-death  that  has  slain  the  laugh- 
ing river ! 
Ah !  the   memories   of  meadowland  and 

mere ! 

Of  the  June-snow  of  pond-lilies  lost  forever, 
And  the  roses  that  were  blooming  yester- 
year ! 

There  is  beauty  in  this  cruel  winter,  even, 
In  this  white  world  where  the  snowlight 

shimmereth ; 

But  the  beauty  of  the  summer  was  of  heaven, 
And  this  beauty  of  the  winter  is  of  death. 


54 


Time. 

AYS  have  left  us, 
And  bereft  us 
Of  dear  friends  and  bitter  foes. 

Days  are  with  us, 
Moments  give  us 
Pleasures  sweet,  as  on  life  goes. 

Days  are  coming, 
Moments,  summing 
Soon  our  share  of  joys  and  woes. 

Youth,  life's  morning 
Self-adorning, 
Time's  deep  impress  does  not  show. 

Life  is  fleeting, 
Strong  hearts  beating 
Soon  will  pass  through  weal  and  woe. 

Age  is  showing 
Fruit  that's  growing 
From  the  seed  sown  long  ago. 


55 


Dizrins. 

The    Charites. 

[REE  long-stoled  maids,  deep- 
girt  and  wimpled — three 
Fair     shame  -  faced     virgins 

serve  Uranian  Love. 
The  first  is  Trust,  then  Truth, 
then  Chastity. 

And  Trust  is  tender  as  the  turtle-dove, 

And  clad  in  opal-lustred  wings  thereof. 

And  Truth,  for  raiment,  has  the  sevensome 

bow, 
For  she  is  manifold,  yet  one.     The  glow 

Of  inmost  clearest  flame,  of  blushes  sweet, 
Of  maiden  love,  of  the   rose  just   'gun   to 

blow, 

Clothes  Chastity.     These  three  sit  round 
Love's  feet. 

The  Parcae. 

IN  midmost  cave  of  Orcus,  in  the  womb 
Whereof  the    world    was --Jove's    most 

secret  cell- 
Sit  the  weird  weavers  by  the  mystic  loom. 
Configured  planets,  fiery  comets  fell, 
Flare  redly  'round  these  Queens  of  Hell ; 
And  flights   of  ominous   birds  above  them 
soar. 

56 


The  air  is  filled  with  moan  of  doves  and  roar 
Of  threatening  thunders.     All  about  are 

scattered 

Sybillic  leaves  and  rolls  of  magic  lore ; 
Yet  who  has  raised  the  veil  that  veils  their 
head? 


57 


The  Pope's  Wine. 

LOOM  of  roses  and  breath  of 

June, 
Made  the  monk  sing  as  he 

pruned  his  vine, 
Purple  asters  and  harvest  moon 
Ruled  the  month  when   he  pressed   the 
wine. 

On  the  bottle  a  waxen  seal 

Kept  the  vintage  from  taste  and  sight, 
Graved  with  letters  cut  by  steel : 

"  Drink  on  the  day  of  thy  best  delight." 

Other  grapes  ripened  and  asters  died, 
The  monk  was  abbot,  old  and  gray. 

He  hoped  for  the  crimson  hat,  and  cried, 
"  Not  yet,  I  wait  for  my  happiest  day." 

Years  flew  past  him,  score  on  score, 

The  abbot  was  cardinal,  pope ;  full  soon 

His  soul  was  ashes,  his  heart  was  sore, 
Delight  in  his  days  an  unsung  tune. 

Bloom  of  roses  and  breath  of  June, 
Kissed  the  pope  on  his  dying  bed. 

"  Do  I  live  ? "     "  No,  death  cometh  soon." 
"  'Tis  the  happiest  day,  bring  the  wine," 
he  said. 


June. 

AIL  to  thee,  Queen  of  the  blos- 
soming Summer, 
Under  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Of  all   the  sweet  maidens  the 

sweetest  in-comer, 
Laughing-eyed,  rosy-lipped  June ; 
Dance  now,  ye  fairies  in  circles  about  her 

Under  the  starlight  so  fair ; 
What  were  our  frolics  at  midnight  without 

her? 
Oh,  she  will  surely  be  there ! 

Now  let  us  dance,  among  the  sweet  clover, 

Trippingly  leaping  along, 
Scour  the  rich  meadows  and  uplands  all  over, 

Merry  with  laughter  and  song. 
Now  let  us  give  to  her  well-bestowed  honor, 

With    golden  -  toothed    flowers    for    her 

throne, 
The  purple  of  pansies,  her  robe,  put  upon  her, 

And  lilies  in  everglades  grown. 
Down,  all  ye  fairies,  in  dumb  adoration, 

Down  in  the  grass  at  her  feet ; 
A  star-crown  of  daisies  for  her  coronation, 

Our  empress  so  modest  and  sweet. 

Now  let  us  strive  to  see  who  shall  be  dearer 
To  her  who  has  love  for  us  all, 

59 


The  fairest  and  purest  alone  shall  be  near  her, 
Our  empress  so  stately  and  tall. 

This  is  the  time  for  music  and  laughter, 
For  love  and  for  smiles  and  for  play, 

Musing   and   sorrow  perchance  may  come 

after — 
All  must  be  happy  to-day. 

Then,  hail  to  thee,  Queen  of  the  blossoming 

Summer, 

Under  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Of  all  the  sweet  maidens  the  sweetest  in- 
comer, 
Rosy-lipped,  laughing-eyed  June. 


60 


The  Lotus-Eaters. 

[HIS  is  a  land  of  dreams.     The 

hills  are  gray 
With  haze,  and  silent  streams 

glide  on  with  slow 
And  placid  current.    Ocean's 

ebb  and  flow 
Sounds  dead  and  passionless  from  far  away. 
The  star-lit  nights  are  voiceless,  till  the  day 
Shoots   quickly  from    the   sea.     Dreamy 

and  low 
Is  Nature's  speech.     Such  is  our  world, 

and  so 
We  live  in  peace,  nor  work,  nor  love,  nor 

pray. 
When  first  we  came,  we  loved  this  dreamy 

land, 

And  love  it  now ;  yet  sometimes,  as  to-day, 
A  breeze  brings  us  across  the  rippling 

deep 

A  chill  of  keen  remembrance.    Up  we  stand, 
While  glazed  eyes  grow  fearful,  and  we  say, 
"  O  God !    torture  us  not,  but  let   us 
sleep." 


61 


Her  Promise. 

QUIT  the  dusty  way, 
Where  the  elms  uniting  sway 

Just  above ; 
In  deeper  shadow  there 
Stands  the  form,  so  dainty  fair, 

Of  my  love. 


To  me,  the  laughing  face, 
With  the  most  bewitching  grace, 

Lightly  trips. 
I  look,  pause,  reassure, 
Ere  I  lift  a  face  so  pure 

To  my  lips. 

She  says,  with  smile  divine, 
On  her  birthday  she'll  be  mine 

Evermore. 

She  presses  close  to  tell 
Me  her  age ;  it  is — ah,  well ! 

Only  four. 


62 


Villanelle. 

vawi  8'  ovre  7re£os  l<av  KEV  evpot? 
es  "Yirep/Sopetov  dyuiva  tfav/marav  oSdv. 


vaeros  diKeavtSes 

avpaL  TrepiTrvtowrtv,  a.v@ep.a  8f  xpv<rov  <^>Xcy€i  K.  T.  X. 

.  //. 


OT  overland  the  path,  so  Fate 

decrees, 
That  leads  to  earth's  Hyper- 

borean rest, 
Nor  over  seas. 


Thus  sang  the  bard  whose  honeyed  lips  the 

bees 

Had  destined  eloquent  and  lordliest  ; 
Not  overland  the  path,  so  Fate  decrees. 

The  mystic  fruit  of  the  Hesperides 

Men  shall  not  find  far  down  the  golden 

west, 
Nor  over  seas. 

They  dream  a  dream,  a  broad  highway  to 

ease, 
A  path  to  peace,  to  soothe  their  anguished 

breast  ; 
Not  overland  the  path,  so  Fate  decrees. 

63 


But   elsewhere    seek    the    wisdom    and    the 

peace 
Of  pious  souls.     Not  here's  the  heavenly 

quest, 
Nor  over  seas. 

And   to   the    isles   where-round   the    ocean 

breeze 
Blows  breath  of  golden  blooms,  isles  of  the 

blest, 

Not  overland  the  path,  so  Fate  decrees, 
Nor  over  seas. 


64 


The  South. 

where   the  hot  wind,  with 
sweet  odors  laden, 
Against     the     roses    faintly 

beats  his  wings, 
Uttering     mild     melodious 

murmurings 
To    the    faint    flowers    and    the    fluttering 

gladen, 
Whispering    of  some    far,    sunset-bowered 

Aidenn, 

And  in  an  orange-tree  an  oriole  sings, 
Whereunder  lies,  dreaming  of  unknown 

things, 
With  orange-blossoms   wreathed,  a  radiant 

maiden — 
There  is  the  poet's  land ;  there  would  I  lie 

Beneath  the  shadows  of  magnolia-trees 
And   let   my    eyes   grow   languid   and   my 

mouth 
Glow   with   the    kisses   of  the    amorous 

breeze 

And  breathe  with  every  breath  the  luxury 
Of  the  hot-cheeked,  sweet,  heavy-lidded 
South. 


A  Rondeau. 

ENDER  and  true."     So  read 

that  Douglas  shield 
Who  bore  the  heart  of  Bruce 

from  the  alien  field 
Back  to  his  realm,  the  land 

of  cold  and  dearth, — 
Fairest  to   him   within  the  wide  world's 

girth, 

Whose  woes  it  was  his  glory  to  have  healed. 
Prouder  this  act  of  Douglas  than  to  wield 
A  realm,  nobler  upon  his  arms  annealed 
This  fair  device  than  all   the  boasts   of 
earth. 

"  Tender  and  true." 

God  grant  that  on  my  heart  it  may  be  sealed, 
And  in  His  grace  grant  my  life,  too,  may 

yield 
This   surest  stamp  and   print   of  gentle 

birth, 
This  crown  and   flower   of  all   knightly 

worth, 

This  sum  of  Christian  virtue  here  revealed — 
"  Tender  and  true." 


66 


"Vox  Clamantis  in 
Deserto." 

VOICE  !  thou  from  that  molt- 
en, rusted  throat, 
Forever    racked    upon    thy 

turning  wheel 
Like  a  Prometheus  chained 

by  god-forged  steel, 

On  wings  invisible  doth  upward  float — 
Oft  mingling  with  thy  strong  and  clarion 

tone, 

Which  thy  proud  spirit  utters  full  and  free, 
Thou    sendest    forth    a    faint,   uncertain 

moan. 
Dost  thou  too  sigh  for  what  thou  canst  not 

be? 
Be  bold,  be  strong,  and  answer  scorn  for 

scorn 

Back  to  thy  captors,  thy  reproaches  fling, 
And    Memnon-like    salute   the   blushing 

morn, 
Until  that  day  when  thou  shalt  gladly  ring, 

With  the  new  cycle  of  the  ages  borne, 
The  longed-for  coming  of  thy  lord  and  King. 


67 


Coming  to  Anchor. 

[HE  ship  stands  out  in  evening's 

glow 

Upon  a  glassy  sea ; 
And    as    the   shadows    longer 

grow 

You  hear  no  sound,  save,  far  below, 
The  lap  of  waves,  unceasingly. 

The  sunset  fades  ;  the  stars  peep  out ; 

The  moon's  approach  is  slow ; 
Hark  !  in  the  distance,  just  without 
The  harbor's  mouth,  the  sailors'  shout 

So  clear  and  sweet,  "  Heave  O,  yo  ho  !  " 

The  ship's  lights  twinkle  on  the  deep, 

Her  bells  ring  out,  and  cease. 
The  night  begins  her  watch  to  keep, 
The  sea  resigns  herself  to  sleep 

With  one  long,  silent  breath  of  peace. 


68 


Song, 


[HERE'S   a  song   in    my  soul 

that  is  growing — 
A  seed,  O   my  star  in   the 

night ! 
That  was  dropped  in  my  heart 

in  the  sowing, 
And  is  struggling  for  life  in  the  light ; — 
A  breeze  that  is  gentle  and  stilly, 

And  has  passed  through  a  garden  in  bloom, 
And  is  sweet  with  the  scent  of  the  lily, 
And  rich  with  the  rose's  perfume. 

'T  is  a  rosebud,  whose  petals  are  blushing 

With  its  half-hidden  longing  to  blow, — 
A  fountain,  whose  waters  are  gushing 

From  deeps  where  the  spirit-tides  flow. 
And  as  out  of  a  bower  of  bushes 

A  bird  unexpectedly  starts, 
So  the  song  unexpectedly  rushes 

From  the  depth  of  my  heart  of  hearts. 

As  the  bird  takes  flight  through  the  air 

And  alights  on  a  stately  pine, 
So  flies  from  me  theeward,  my  fair, 

The  song  that  was  mine  and  is  thine. 
For  I  am  the  bush-made  bower, 

And  thou  art  the  stately  tree, 
And  my  song  is  the  bird,  O  my  flower, 

And  the  bird  has  a  message  for  thee. 

69 


The  Return. 

E  dun-gray  clouds  of  twilight, 
That  veil  the  sinking  sun, 
Lead  on  the    shades  of  mid- 
night 

When  filmy  dreams  are  spun. 
Come,  veil  my  lady's  terrace, 

That  'neath  her  chamber  lies, 
While  I,  o'er  roads  and  ferries, 
Will  speed  me  till  mine  eyes 
Behold  her  signal  gleaming 

Out  through  the  midnight  mist, 
Where  she,  my  sweet,  is  dreaming 

Of  waves  that  writhe  and  twist 
About  the  "  Wrathful  Rover," 
That's  due  to  bring  to-night 
A  long-expected  lover 

Back  to  her  beckoning  light. 


What !  is  my  love  false-hearted, 
That  no  light  yonder  gleams  ? 

She  promised  when  we  parted 
That  I  should  see  its  beams. 


My  fears  are  fast  retreating, 
For  Julian  prinks  his  ears, — 

There  at  the  stile  is  greeting, 
A  kiss,  and  smiles,  and  tears  ! 

70 


The    Daughter   of  Dawn. 

I  RIPPING  through  daisy-strewn 

meadows  of  morn, 
Yellow  with  buttercups,  dia- 
mond with  dew, 
Came  one,  the  fairest  of  maid- 
ens e'er  born ; 

For  she  was  the  daughter  of  Dawn, 
Of  Dawn,  fresh,  silver-veiled  Dawn. 

And  hundreds  of  feathery,  fluttering  throats 
Chorused  their  carols  of  joy  in  her  train, 
With  love  in  their  hearts,  'neath  the  motley 

brown  coats, 

For  their  queen,  the  daughter  of  Dawn, 
Of  Dawn,  the  sweet-smiling  Dawn. 

Across  the  spider-spun  tangles  of  grass, 
Gathering  her  filmy  robes  from  the  dew 

Down  by  the  brink  of  the  brook  in  its  glass, 
Stood  mirrored  the  daughter  of  Dawn, 
Of  Dawn,  mild,  violet-eyed  Dawn. 

Then  strode  forth  the  sun  in  his  armor  of 

gold, 
With  a  cloud  for  a  crest,  and  came  to  the 

brook, 
And  the  maid,  in  the  stream  saw  his  form, 

brave  and  bold, 

And  love  looked  the  daughter  of  Dawn, 
Of  Dawn,  happy,  far-away  Dawn. 


Compensation. 

|HE    years    but   bring  into   the 

heart  of  man 

What  joy  or  sorrow  he  him- 
self hath  wrought ; — 
To  one,  a  golden  glory,  truth's 

dear  meed ; 
To    one,    the   withered    ashes    self    hath 
bought ; 

Bought  in  the  busy  mart  of  bartered  love, — 
Bought  for  a  bauble,  'gainst  a  jewel  rare, — 

Bought  for  a  toy,  to  be  a  life's  delight, 
Dimm'd   now,  alas  !   and  now  no  longer 
fair. 

Time    counts    the    cost   with   all-relentless 

hand; 
Into     man's     soul     his     recompense     he 

showers. 
Gold    gives    he   back   for  gold    once   given 

him, — 
Ashes  for  ashes  :  naught  are  tears  of  ours. 


72 


Altruria. 

iGAIN   a  prophet  has  afar  de- 
scried 

That  happy  land,  those  isl- 
ands of  the  blest, 
Low-lying    in    the   splendor 

of  the  West, 
At  sunset,  far  beyond  the  ebbing  tide. 
Again  we  look  away,  and  see  the  wide 

Expanse  of  sky ;  but  gaze  with  troubled 

breast, 

Unsatisfied,  and   filled  with  strange  un- 
rest— 
A  longing  for  some  precious  gift  denied. 

Why  watch  we  seaward  still  with  straining 

eyes  ? 

Altruria,  Atlantis,  they  are  there, 
And  not  the  vision  of  a  mystic's  trance. 
We   walk    their  shining  ways,   their  sunny 

skies 

Bend  over  us,  but  yet  we  grope  in  fear, 
And  blindly  miss  our  great  inheritance. 


73 


Blind  Love. 

OVE  was  not  always  blind,  you 

know; 
His   eyes  shone   bright   long, 

long  ago ; 

But  what  he  saw  so  horrified 
x>ve,  he  very  nearly  died. 
Then  in  the  shock  of  sad  surprise 
He  thrust  an  arrow  through  his  eyes. 
"  Perhaps,"  said  he,  with  lowered  head, 
"  'T  is  better  to  be  blind  than  dead." 


A  Triolet. 

HE  little  bow  of  ribbon  white 
That  in  my  desk  lies  snugly 

hid, 

Recalls  old  scenes  of  gay  de- 
light,— 

The  little  bow  of  ribbon  white. 
For  from  fair  Annie,  laughing  sprite, 
I  stole  it  while  she  gently  chid, — 
The  little  bow  of  ribbon  white 
That  in  my  desk  lies  snugly  hid. 


74 


A  Ballade  of  Mysteries. 

[OCTOR,   I   pray   you,  do   no 

more  wrong 
To  the  drugged  dog  there  in 

the  horrid  room. 
Come,  unmuzzle ;  disclose  how 

the  stars  prolong, 
Their  lines  of  light    through  the  infinite 

gloom, 
And  how  life  grew  in  the  young  earth's 

womb. 

Then    /'//  tell  you   how    the    bell's    ding- 
dong 
Holds  sweet  talk  with   the   birds  i'  the 

broom, 
And  the  Poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 

Sage,  who  knowest  to  trace  the  throng 
Of   world-thoughts    farther    than    bards 

presume, — 
Say    how   grows    the   weak   babe  wise  and 

strong, 
And    how    is    Thought    born,    and    by 

whom 
Can  the   Fates  be  lured  from  the  pitiless 

Loom, 

And  what  is  Right,  and  what  is  Wrong. 
Then    /'//    tell    you    why    the    breakers 

boom, 
And  the  Poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 

75 


Priest,  tell  me  now,  ere  the  even  song, 

How  God  lay  hid  in  the  Virgin's  womb, 

Who  filleth  the  depth  and  height  of  the  long 

Sky-reaches,    and      how     bread      should 

become 
His  Flesh   that    rose    from    the    Sacred 

Tomb. 
Then   /'//  tell  you    how   the    clouds   give 

tongue 
To  God's  message,  the  dream  of  the  grand 

sweet  doom, 
And  the  Poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 

ENVOI. 

Princess,  say  how  the  heart  makes  room 
For  love  in  the   halls  where  the  statesmen 
throng. 

Then  /'//  tell  you  why  the  roses  bloom, 
And  the  Poet's  heart  is  astir  with  song. 


76 


The  Wind's  Message. 

~|HE  wind  beat  down  in  its  pass- 
ing glee 

And  lashed  to  fury  a  daisy  sea. 
It     told     of     blight     in     the 

autumn's  frost. 
Of  grace  departed,  and  beauty  lost : 
But  whispered  ere  it  had  passed  away, 
"  Love  cannot  decay." 

The  golden  hair  of  a  child  at  play 
The  wind  was  tumbling  one  sunny  day. 
It  laughed,  as  lightly  the  curls  it  tossed, 
That  youth  should  fade,  and  the  gold  be 

lost ; 

But  this  one  story  the  soft  wind  told, 
"  Love  cannot  grow  old." 

The  elms,  where  orioles'  nests  were  hung, 
The  wind  in  frolic  had  madly  swung. 
Beneath  the  nests  a  dead  bird  lay, 
The  awful  cost  of  that  short,  wild  play  : 
But  breeze  and  branch  gave  one  sad  sigh, 
"  Love  never  can  die." 


77 


A  Student's  Reverie. 

S'T  any  great  relief  to  know 
That  water  is  but  H2O  ? 
Or,  to  the  timid,  gain  still  more 
When  marsh  gas  is  but  CH4  ? 

Ah,  crowds  stand  round  and  never  think 

That  C2H6O  means  "  drink  "  ! 

And  C6HI2O,  draws 

From  children's  throats   no  loud  applause. 

But  HC1,  though  looking  small, 

Has  power  to  make  the  strongest  fall ; 

And  HgCla  the  same — 

A  taste  would  send  you  whence  you  came. 

And  how  pathetic  when  'twas  found 
The  formulae  would  not  go  round, 
So  the  essential  oils  all  ride 
On  CIOHJ6  astride. 

But  see  !  the  wondrous  series  run 
In  larger  numbers,  on  and  on. 
I'll  end  as  I  began ;  so,  so  ; 
Give  me  a  drink  of  H,O. 


At  Eventide. 

iT  eventide — when  'thwart   the 

western  sky 
The    mellow    glories    of    the 

sunset  lie 
Like  some  huge  conflagration's 

ruddy  flush, 
Or  maiden's  cheek,  deep  dyed  with  crimsor 

blush 

Of  new-born  love — Ah,  fair  to  poet's  eye 
Is  earth, — close  wrapped  in  twilight's  holy 

hush 

At  eventide. 

At  eventide,  though  nature  gently  stills 
Her  myriad  voices,  all  my  being  thrills 
With  sad,  sweet  memories  of  a  buried  past 
That  lives  but  in  my  bosom,  guarded  fast 
As  watchful  pine-trees  guard  yon  granite  hills  ; 
Memories,  each  sweeter,  sadder  than  the  last, 
At  eventide. 

At  eventide,  though  gusty  passion  wrings 
Wild  strains  from  out  my  poor  heart's  tor- 
tured strings, 

Yet  when  the  sunset's  crown  of  golden  sheen 
Fades  faint  and  fainter,  and  no  more  is  seen, 
The  thought  that  thus  grief  fades,  sweet 

comfort  brings, 

While  shadows  lengthen  o'er  the  village  green 
At  eventide. 

79 


A  Dream. 

|UT  from  the  vague  and  shadowy 

realms  of  sleep, 
Often  there  comes  to  me  at 

eventide 
A  merry,  laughing  face,  and 

eyes  of  brown, 
Whence  roguish  glances,  swift  and  tender, 
leap. 

Once  more  we  wander,  side  by  side,  along 
Some    rippling    stream,    or    through    the 

forest  glade ; 
Or,  roaming  under  August's  sunny  skies, 

We  hear  the  mighty  ocean's  ceaseless  song. 

Ah  !  precious  thoughts  of  mingled  joy  and 

pain, 
That    come    to    us,  surrounded  by  life's 

cares ; 

Come  forth,  ye  misty  dreams  at  eventide, 
And  bring  forgotten  memories  back  again. 


80 


An  October  Day. 

HE  last  fern  is  dying, 
The  wild  birds  are  flying 

Far  up  in  the  blue. 
The  soft  winds  are  sighing,- 

The  heart  sigheth,  too. 

With  yellow  and  red, 

By  the  leaves  that  are  dead, 

The  damp  ground  is  strown, 
While  softly  o'erhead 

The  bare  branches  moan. 

But  down  from  the  sky 
Where  the  passing  fowls  cry 

Falls  a  promise  of  spring. 
Though  winter  is  nigh, 

We'll  be  merry  and  sing. 


81 


Quatrains. 

I.  Doubt. 

| HE  way  is  dim,  and  dark  the 

night, 
I  know  not  where  to  turn, 

or  when 
The  dawn  will  come  and  bring 

me  light, — 
I  cannot  see  the  path  till  then. 

II.  Disappointment. 

A  pine-tree  there,  upon  a  lofty  height 

Smitten  by  wind  and  flood  has  fallen  low; 

In  vain  was  all  its  majesty  and  might ; — 
My  hopes  have  fallen,  and  are  lying  so. 


82 


A  Winter  Sunset. 

|HE  angry  sun  with  flushed  and 

crimson  face, 
Upon    a    bleak   and    barren 

waste  of  cold 
Reflects    his   last   low  rays   of 

cheerless  light, 
Then  sinks  beneath  a  sea  of  boiling  gold. 
The  molten  glory  dies  away  at  last ; 

One  rosy  pale  flush  only  lingers  yet ; 
The  mountains  dark  against  a  frozen  sky 
Stand  out  in  cold,  impassive  silhouette. 

The  stars  from  out  the  boundless  depth  of 
space 

Emerge,  as  slow  the  tints  of  twilight  die ; 
Far  in  the  north  dim,  ghostly  streamers  rise, 

And  waver,  flit,  and  flare  across  the  sky. 
Forsaken,  drear,  forlornly  desolate, 

Upon  the   shrouded,  cold,  dead  waste  of 

white 
There  falls  in  an  unbroken  solitude 

The  perfect  silence  of  a  winter's  night. 


To  Violets  in  October. 

iTE  lingering  violets,  your  rare 

perfume 
Is  just  as  sweet  amid  the  gloom 

Of  these  grim  hours 
As  when  the  throbbing  of  the 

spring 
Woke  into  life  each  growing  thing 

And  spread  the  earth  with  flowers. 

Sweet,  steadfast  violets,  may  love  like  you, 
Tho'  by  cold  storms  oppressed,  prove  true 

In  life's  declining, 
As  when  it  sang  its  roundelay, 
While  yet  the  glowing,  rapturous  day 

Of  youth  was  warmly  shining. 


Drink  in  Reverence. 

[RIM  up  !     Brim  up  ! 
Your  flowing  cup, 

Fill  up  to  the  lusty  tars  ; 
Sing   ho  !  to    the   lads  on  sea 

and  land 

With  the   heart  of  steel  and  callous  hand, 
That  bleed  for  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Bend  low  your  head 
To  the  martyred  dead, 

And  sink  on  a  rev' rent  knee, 
To  the  young  lives  lost 
As  a  vict'ry's  cost, 

And  left  on  an  unknown  sea. 

Trust  God  and  pray, 
Ye  wives  that  stay  ; 

Ye  mothers,  dry  your  eyes  ; 
For  the  binding  chains 
Of  a  hundred  reigns 

With  the  souls  of  your  flesh  arise. 


Eventide. 

|ILLWARD,withbright  plumes 

trailing,  creeps  the  day  ; 
Beside    the    brimming    brook, 

the  apple-trees 
White-robed  like  brides,  with 

heads  low  bended,  stand 
Waiting  the  kiss  of  wand'ring  airs  that  come 
Mist  cloaked,  soft  stepping  o'er  the  filmy 

grass, 

Fearing  to  break  the  spell  of  eventide, 
Fraught  with  expectant  silence,  save  when 

now 
Beyond  the  hedge  some  shy-voiced  robin's 

mate, 
Quick    to    the    pulse    of    passion-breathing 

spring,  _ 

Pours   out   its    throbbing   heart  in    vibrant 
song. 


86 


Parting. 

HIP  against  the  harbor-mouth, 

Breakers  on  the  bar, 
Mist  across  the  salt  marsh, 
Dusk  and  evening  star. 
Flutt'ring  white  from  cross-tree, 
Flutt'ring   white   from    piers, 
Lad  and  maid's  first  parting, 
As  daylight  disappears. 

Gale  among  the  pitch  pine, 

Floe-ice  on  the  rock, 
Sodden  drift  of  gray  to  where 

Sky  and  ocean  lock. 
Empty  sea-room,  wide  and  far, 

Lass  with  straining  eyes, 
Watching  from  the  headland, 

As  daylight  dies. 


Rondel. 

|OW     white      Soracte      yonder 

gleams 
'Mid  snows  'neath  which  the 

trees  are  bending ! 
The    frost  -  king    halts    the 

rushing  streams ; 
Heap    high   the   hearth,   these  chill   bonds 
rending. 

Bring  forth  the  wine  :  for  gods,  the  tending 
Of  winds  that  war  the  deep,  one  deems. 
How  white  Soracte  yonder  gleams 

'Mid   snows    'neath   which    the     trees     are 
bending ! 

Let  not  the  morrow  haunt  your  dreams, 
Nor    spurn    sweet    loves :    thee,  boy,   the 

spending 

Of  eve  in  whispered  tryst  beseems, 
The  girl's  glad  laugh  the  love-pledge  lending. 

How  white  Soracte  yonder  gleams 
'Mid    snows     'neath    which    the   trees   are 
bending  ! 


88 


J 


une. 


HE  melody  of  unwrit  songs 
By  woodland  choirs  sung  ; 

The  odor  of  a  rare  perfume 
From  hillside  censers  flung  ; 

The  flash  of  myriad  dewdrop 


gems 

In  cobweb  caskets  set ; 
And  such  a  joy  within  the  heart 
As  it  can  ne'er  forget. 


Autumn  Leaves. 

jHE  hills  on  every  hand  display 
In  every  hue  of  gold  and  red 
Oak   leaves  and   maple  bright 

and  gay. 
To-morrow    we    shall    find 

them  dead, 

For  this  the  price  they  have  to  pay 
To  buy  the  glory  of  a  day. 


The  Last  Spring. 

YING  out  on  the  campus 

Under  the  stars  of  May, 
Singing  the  old  songs  over, 
Smoking  the  night  away  ; 

Bright  is  the  sky  above  us, 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  Spring  ; 
Give  me  my  pipe  and  a  song  and  night 
And  I  am  creation's  king. 

Lying  out  on  the  campus, 

Hand  a-grip  with  hand, 
Trusting  the  loves  we've  followed, 

Groping  to  understand 
The  throb  and  pain  of  parting 

With  these  fair  nights  that  glide 
Out  of  the  world  and  into  our  hearts — 

Into  our  hearts  and  there  abide. 


90 


Chickadees. 

[HE     sturdy     chickadees,     too 

proud  to  fly, 

When  winter's  stern  advance 
would    drive    them    forth 
Southward  to  where  the  balmy 
tropics  lie, 

Unyielding  linger  in  the  frozen  North. 
And  bitter  mornings  leaving  their  retreat 

To  glean  what  scanty  food  may  yet  remain, 
Half  frozen,  still  their  cheery  song  repeat 
To  keep  their  courage  firm,  but  ne'er  com- 
plain. 

The  Frost. 

PON  the  window  forms  the  si- 
lent frost, 
When     winter's     breathing 

gathers  there  and  turns 
To  icy  sheathing,  and  all  is  em- 
bossed 
In  varied  forms  of  flowers  and  leaves  and 

ferns, 
As  if  the  moisture  that  is  there  enchained 

Had  been  the  bosom  of  a  woodland  stream  ; 
As  if  in  freezing  it  had  still  retained 

The  shapes  it  mirrored  in  the  summer's 
dream. 


In  Later  Days. 

[N  later  days  it  may  be  they  will 

write 
Upon  her  grave  these  words  : 

"  Here  lieth  she 
Whom    a   sweet   poet    sung." 
'Twould  better  be 
And   truer,  to  carve  upon  my  headstone 

white, 
"  He  ne'er  had  sung  who  rests  beneath  this 

knoll 
Had  she  not  put  the  music  in  his  soul." 


Autumn. 

!HE  bees  that  buzzed  in  blossom 

time 
Have   gone,    I     know    not 

where ; 
The  birds   that  sang  the  day's 

farewell, 
And  woke  the  morning  from  the  dell, 

Have  sought  a  balmier  air. 
Each   voice    is   stilled,  save    for    the    wind, 

That  whimpers  in  the  grove 
And  scatters  dust  and  ashen  leaves 
Across  a  grave  I  love. 


92 


Banquet  Song, 
i. 

[OMRADES,  fill   the   banquet 
cup 

Brimming  up  ! 

Fill  it  full  of  love  and  laughter, 
Claret  lips  and  kisses  after, 
Crown  it  with  a  maiden's  smiles, 
And  the  foam  of  magic  wiles. 
Drink  it,  drain  it,  clink  your  glasses, 
For  the  love  of  loving  lasses 
Ere  it  passes  ! 

II. 

Fill  again  the  banquet  cup 

Brimming  up  ! 
Overflow  it  with  the  roses, 
Which  her  timid  blush  discloses. 
With  her  sparkling  eyelight  sift  it, 
Till  it  flavored  is.     Then  lift  it. 
Drink  it,  drain  it,  clink  your  glasses, 
For  the  love  of  loving  lasses 

Ere  it  passes ! 

III. 

Comrades,  fill  a  parting  cup 

Brimming  up ! 

Flood  it  in  your  praise's  zest, 
For  the  uninvited  guest. 

93 


With  her  charms  and  graces  fill  it, 
Touch  the  lips  and  heart-ward  spill  it. 
Drink  it,  drain  it,  clink  your  glasses, 
For  the  love  of  loving  lasses 
Ere  it  passes  ! 


94 


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